Mireille preferred being alone. She had neither the time nor the inclination to worry about anyone but herself.
Snow fell as she exited the theater, the flakes catching in her hair, restored to copper now that the veiling potion had fully worn off.
She wondered if any of the other dancers or audience members had noticed that her facial features looked slightly off this evening—her long nose not quite as sharp and her lips thinner than usual, her silver eyes ringed in dark blue.
She doubted it. No one, aside from her wolf, knew the real Mireille Valette.
And she was determined to keep it that way.
CHAPTER THREE
Ronin plodded down the snow-packed sidewalks of downtown Kheimos, weaving around very different groups of Fae than what he was used to due to the early hour.
A Windrider couple swung a rosy-cheeked toddler between them, laughing as the child fluttered his downy gray wings in an attempt at fledgling flight.
A pinched-face Beastrunner male in a sharply-tailored suit barked commands into his commstone, head bowed against the wind.
A line of tourists awaited entry into the city’s famous art museum, a mix of all three sub-species donning knit hats, puffy coats, and excited smiles.
They all shared something Ronin had been lacking for centuries—a compelling reason to get up in the morning and face the harsh daylight.
Ronin was a creature of the night, preferred the city’s seedy underbelly that only exposed itself under cover of darkness. Which there was plenty of this time of year this far north. One of the main reasons Ronin had chosen to come here after his caging rather than returning home.
As he trudged past the tourists, several heads swiveled in his direction. He pulled his hood down lower; the last thing he needed this morning was to be recognized. He was in no mood to entertain anyone’s morbid curiosity about his past deeds or his resulting punishment.
Before his caging, fame had been a delightful burden to bear. Infamy was much heavier. And far more barbed.
Head pounding—he’ddefinitelyhad too much Delirium after the fight last night—he barreled across the street, nearly side-swiping a deliverymale with an armful of packages, and strode up the steps of Imperial Affairs headquarters.
The sprawling complex reminded him of a honeycomb, with its hexagonal windows and all the drones buzzing around doing Skanisse’s bidding. All types of Fae in drab navy and charcoal milled about, sipping cups of steaming coffee or rushing into glass-walled conference rooms.
The clinical lobby contained no decorations other than a portrait of Emperor Leonin Erabis, his iridescent black wings and obsidian gaze on proud display, and two flags. The black one bore the Imperial sigil: a Typhon steel broadsword bracketed by feathered wings and radiating lines. The aqua flag beside it showcased the Northern Territories’ sigil: a double-headed axe, the favored weapon of Vestan, God of War, on top of a crescent moon.
Night and violence.
Fitting that this is the territory where Ronin ended up.
Adjusting his hood, Ronin offered a sarcastic salute to the stone-faced Beastrunner at the front desk, who boomed in a bass-deep voice, “You’re late. Meeting’s downstairs.” He nodded back toward the bank of elevators. “An escort is waiting for you on sub-level five.”
“Cloak-and-dagger shit this time, huh?” Ronin grimaced, earning a grunt as the male buzzed him through a waist-high gate.
The elevators were a recent addition. Though they’d been invented decades ago, Kheimos had been slow to adopt many of the technological advancements sweeping through the continent from Delos. Not as slow as the human colonies, granted, which enjoyed precisely none of the Fae’s innovations. Those nearly magic-less islands were practically primordial.
Ronin pressed a button on the wall and waited for the telltale ding. He hated riding in the small, windowless box, a claustrophobic cage that was all too familiar.
He stepped through the opening doors, then leaned on the back bar and massaged his temples, thanking the High Gods that no one had joined him. Glowing numbers ticked off the floors as he descended, clenching his fists against the inevitable stomach drop.
The elevator slowed, and Ronin burst out as soon as the doors parted, not wanting to spend an additional second within the six-by-six-foot death trap.
A Windrider male with tucked wings and a tight face was waiting for him. “You’re late.”
Ronin huffed a laugh, pushing his hood back. “So they keep telling me.”
“Follow me.”
The Windrider led Ronin on a circuitous route through narrow, tubular hallways. Jittery due to the elevator ride, his wolf paced and panted within him, sniffing at the dry, recycled air.
Easy buddy, Ronin soothed.Just a business meeting.
